


sleeping with a friend

by livepoultryfreshkilled



Category: House of Lies
Genre: BPD Clyde Oberholt, Blow Jobs, Doug Guggenheim is Autistic, Doug Guggenheim's Fat Fucking Milkers, Drunken Kissing, Friends to Lovers, How Do I Tag, Internalized Homophobia, Introspection, M/M, MINOR. ITS MINOR, Mutual Pining, OCD Clyde Oberholt, Praise Kink, Repression, Sloppy Makeouts, and then back to friends because clyde is a pussy, and they were best friends (oh my god they were best friends), did you know my therapist has this account?, dr herzog please do not read this, gay clyde oberholt, i did not write this fic, its 9:30 in the morning AM where am i, oh my god ignore that tag, ok but i LITERALLY wrote this instead of sleeping, ok now for the actual tags, thats my excuse for writing s word, the spirit of clydedoug possessed me. why it chose me as a vessel i do not know, two birds on a wire if you get my drift
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-15
Updated: 2020-11-15
Packaged: 2021-03-10 01:14:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,413
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27575690
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/livepoultryfreshkilled/pseuds/livepoultryfreshkilled
Summary: it goes like this: you are my best friend, and i am yours. it goes like this: i will love you forever, and that's why i will never stop kicking you.
Relationships: Doug Guggenheim/Clyde Oberholt
Comments: 46
Kudos: 25





	sleeping with a friend

**Author's Note:**

> clyde and doug invented friends to lovers

“You know, I—I’ve figured you out, Clyde,” Doug slurs, gesturing vaguely with his free hand, the other firmly wrapped around the sweating neck of the bottle they accidentally stole from the seedy-ass strip club. “Got you _alll_ figured out.”

“You—Yeah?” Clyde breathes out half a laugh, swaying. They’re so drunk that they walk in cursive, knocking into each other like windchimes. Doug makes a little _mm_ noise and pauses, holding Clyde’s shoulder. 

“I know what’s your, what your deal is,” he tells him confidently, “I finally cracked the Clyde-code.”

It’s warm out. It’s always warm out, it’s LA, but tonight it’s too warm for their jackets and at some point Clyde’s tie. It’s too warm out for their shirts to be properly buttoned. It’s too warm out for them to remember not to stand so close together, so they’re leaning against each other like palm trees, steady in the windless night. 

Clyde feels the soles of his shoes clinging to the cement slightly, breathing deep thick air that makes his shirt stick to his back. It’s so warm that if they touched, skin-to-skin, they’d probably melt into each other like a plastic spoon on hot asphalt. Clyde watches a bead of sweat trail down Doug’s neck past his collar and wonders which one of them would be the spoon.

“So what’s the _Clyde-code,_ Douglas?” Clyde smiles, the alcohol making him feel feather-light. _Footloose and fancy-free._

Doug points at him accusatorially. “You’re mean to me, all th’ time, but you’re just,” Doug waggles his finger, “you just do it cause you like me.”

“Yeah?” Clyde breathes out. Doug is right in front of his face. He takes a few steps back until he hits the brick wall of the looming bank they were passing, knocking his head back. He laughs, a little meanly. “You think I _like_ you?”

“Yeah,” Doug looks like he’s about to follow Clyde’s steps, but decides against it. “I think you like me _so_ much.” And that makes Clyde pause. He looks away, staring up at the black, starless sky.

There’s something wrong about tonight. 

Call it deja-vu, or just an ominous feeling, but there’s something wrong about tonight; something off about how neither of them are laughing hard enough, neither of them are looking away soon enough. They’re both used to brushing the dust of each other off their jackets, but tonight their touches linger long after they’ve pulled away. They’re used to an audience, but tonight this sidewalk, this city, maybe the whole world is empty. Just the streetlamps and fluorescent storelights left, polluting the sky and brutally illuminating all the cracks in the clay. 

Clyde stares at the sky, empty and endless. He stares until he feels like he’s falling into it, until he feels so dizzy that he has to bring his eyes back down to earth. He looks for someone who could hear him scream. 

Doug is leaning against a tree across the sidewalk. He’s too far; he’s miles and miles away and it’s making Clyde itch. The bottle is lying prone and forgotten next to his feet and sticky-sweet vodka is seeping into the cement under his shoes. What a waste.

The symmetry between their stances and the faint synchronization of their breathing makes Clyde’s alcohol-soaked brain feel like they could be the same person, staring into a mirror, just for a moment. Maybe he’s Doug Guggenheim, maybe he has been all his life. The idea doesn’t frighten him, but the relief that it brings does. 

Clyde would believe it, too; he’s never felt like himself, so maybe he’d feel more like Doug. Clyde always thought that when he was born, someone dropped him, like a marble, into the well of his body, and all his life he’s been waiting to hit the water. He never touches the sides of that well, just feels the air rushing past him, hurtling farther and farther away from the surface. Sometimes he forgets that he’s falling, but the motion sickness always catches up with him. That marble-Clyde never makes contact with anything and all his organs feel like they’re in zero gravity, just jostling around inside his body. He wants to hit the bottom, wants to hit _anything,_ even if he shatters on impact.

But it wouldn’t work both ways, because Doug wouldn’t know _how_ to be Clyde. It’s not like being anyone else, where you just _are;_ Clyde has to run to stay put. If Doug had to be him, he would give it all away barely a minute in. He’s always been too genuine. And he wouldn’t understand why he has to do all that work for nothing; Clyde Oberholt is an Academy Award winning actor for the groundbreaking role of Man In Suit #3. Doug wouldn’t get why Clyde, if he could pretend to be anyone, would play a sad, oversexed little man in expensive shoes. It’s all made-up, all of it; it’s all props and movie magic, and Doug wouldn’t know the first thing about that kind of dishonesty, poor sap.

All these thoughts, and still the silence persists. Nobody moves, nobody speaks; Doug and Clyde forever remain both themselves and each other. They’ve been that way for a minute, or maybe forever. Maybe a part of them always stays there, in the moment, or at least a part of Clyde; he is always on that endless mission to lose himself, leaving bits and pieces all over the place. It would be nice to lose himself in Doug. It would be simple, at least. But Clyde doesn’t really deserve that simplicity, does he? Not after everything he’s done.

It echoes through him. _You’re mean to me._

The ghost of guilt rises up his throat, a very faint burn, like the trace of bile. He _is_ mean to Doug, but he doesn’t see why it has to mean anything. It’s nothing Doug can’t handle. He’s so soft, he needs it, needs someone to toughen his skin and build his character. And Clyde needs it, too; needs that vertical distance between them, needs to be the one kicking sand, but for the life of him he can’t remember why. He’s always been obsessed with being that kind of nuisance, maybe because he can’t imagine a life where he’s honest. He can’t imagine a world where anyone’s honest. The sheer concept of truth frightens him. He’s safe laughing, he’s safe playing the dickhead. He doesn’t mind being hated; it’s better when you do it on purpose, at least.

Clyde shifts restlessly; he’s so uncomfortable, like his skin is on too tight. He’s never been good in quiet, always filled it up somehow, and Doug is supposed to be even worse than him, but he’s just staring back at Clyde. Looking at him like he’s made of glass, like he can see all his floating organs and veins and tissue all laid out pretty. He doesn’t like that look, how knowing it is. Clyde never learned how to tolerate silence, so he shatters this one. Brick, meet window.

“If I like you so much, then why am I so,” Clyde crooks his fingers, forming exaggerated air quotes, _“‘mean’_ to you?” 

Doug smiles at that, with a smugness very pointedly out of character. He then promptly shoots Clyde point blank in the head.

“You just want me to pay attention to you.”

Now, that may not be entirely true, but it goes through Clyde _like_ a bullet; quickly, cleanly, leaving a massive gorey hole on the other side. Shot embeds itself in what’s left of his brain, sharp and jagged pieces of flint that burrow deep inside, where they’ll never get out. That brick Clyde threw has hit him directly in the face, shattering nothing but his jaw. 

Clyde can’t even think to defend himself against it, against how sad and plain the truth is. He’s in shock; he’s been thrown off his rhythm so violently that he’s playing an entirely different song. He feels seen, maybe for the first time in his life, and he’s not sure he likes it.

_You just want me to pay attention to you._

So what if he does? Clyde Oberholt is made of cellophane, he’s plastic and wrinkled and no one looks at him for very long. He’s been crying since he was a child, but either no one could hear him or no one cared, so he made them. He made them care, tricked and lied and danced, begging for someone to feed him. But there’s a hole in Clyde’s throat that means nothing he eats ever makes it to his stomach. It doesn’t mean he’s not gluttonous, it just means he’s a liar.

And it’s easy to make Doug care, to push Doug’s buttons like he’s a vending machine until something hot and angry and just for Clyde falls out. It goes like this: no matter how many times Clyde pinches or kicks or pokes him while he’s sleeping, Doug always sits next to him on the plane. No matter how many times Clyde buzzes right in his ear, Doug will never swat him away. 

And there’s something else, too: there’s this _thing_ about how Doug says it so confidently, how Doug lays him out so plainly despite how hard he tries to make him do anything but that’s weirdly... hot. Not hot, he doesn’t mean _hot-_ hot; it’s just hot _outside_ and he’s drunk and Doug just boiled their entire relationship down to one pathetic truth. Clyde is clearly more unsettled than he previously assumed. He doesn’t flinch, though, doesn’t show any reaction. 

Doug eyes him warily, taking slow steps towards Clyde until they’re face to face. Clyde tilts his chin up, spreads his body all over the wall like climbing ivy, trying to feel like anything other than prey. He scans Doug’s face for signs of fear, of hesitation; signs of _anything_ that could give Clyde leverage. 

“Maybe,” he agrees, because of the vodka, and because of the heat, and because of anything other than him. He finally looks Doug in the eye. “So pay attention to me.”

He’s not surprised when Doug kisses him. This is what all that potentiation in the night air was leading up to, he knows that now; whatever invisible thing that was keeping them apart finally snaps. He doesn’t move, doesn’t breathe; he can feel Doug’s stubble scratching gently against his skin.

He maybe should’ve been a bit more responsive because Doug pulls away rapidly. “Shit, oh shit, Clyde, I’m so sorry, I mis—I misread that completely,” Doug is walking backwards and rubbing his palms down the sides of his pants, sharp worry lines carving deep into his face. Anxious apologies fill the air like smoke. Clyde relishes in it for a moment, using the time to collect himself so he can speak without Doug noticing how hard he’s breathing. 

“Doug,” he interrupts, but Doug just barrels through.

“I’m just really drunk, and, fuck, I th—I thought—I,” Doug’s voice is rising, his face already ruddy from drink darkening even further.

“Doug,” Clyde tries again, a little louder.

“I just—”

_“Doug,”_

“I didn’t—”

Clyde reaches out and wraps his fist around Doug’s tie and tugs. Lightly, just once, just to catch his attention.

“Doug.”

Doug looks at him stupidly, eyes wide in fear. It makes Clyde’s teeth feel sharper, and he grins. Doug lets Clyde lead him closer, pulling him by the neck like a dog on a leash. He lets Clyde drag him until their chests are almost touching. “Doug,” Clyde says again, voice low, “shut the fuck up.”

“Okay,” Doug breathes, and Clyde pulls him forward just enough to catch his mouth. He left his self-control at the club: this night has drained Clyde of all his opaqueness, Doug’s already turned him so fucking see-through that it would be pointless to lie about what he wants now. At least, that’s what he tells himself when he bites at Doug’s lip.

Doug gets the picture very quickly, touching Clyde all over, anywhere he can reach, like he’s trying to memorize Clyde’s body. Clyde drinks it in, lets himself get intoxicated on how much Doug _wants_ him, desires him like no one else ever has. He lets Doug press his weight against him, runs his hands over Doug’s muscles, feeling them even through his shirt. It never really dawned on him before, but Doug is fucking _jacked,_ all hard muscle and defined edges caging Clyde in between his arms. Clyde has never felt so small in his life.

“Clyde,” Doug’s panting between kisses, “Clyde.” He cups his hand around the back of Clyde’s head, cushioning it against the hard brick. It’s such an absentmindedly thoughtful thing to do, and Clyde hates it; hates how much better Doug is than him, a better man, kinder, how Doug’s heart doesn’t have a single wasp’s nest in it. He doesn’t want Doug to cradle his jaw, he wants him to wrap his hands (his big, _big_ hands) around Clyde’s throat; he wants him to squeeze. He wants Doug to make him move how _he_ wants, wants to be thrown around like a fucking ragdoll. Clyde wants this to be just as violent as everything else between them, _needs_ the normalcy it would bring. He’s sick of Doug and his high fucking horse and how he can still be gentle with all that strength. The thought, however, doesn’t stop him from moaning into Doug’s mouth when he slides his fingers into Clyde’s hair.

“Shut up,” he tells him, sliding his hand under Doug’s stupid fucking suspender strap, clutching, not caring that he’s clutching, “shut up, shut up, oh my _God,_ shut up.” The familiarity of the phrase almost makes him laugh but then Doug turns the series of brutal presses into one slow kiss, sealing their mouths together and Clyde forgets to be an asshole.

They move like they always do. Push and pull, back and forth, roughhousing like children. Clyde grips Doug’s shirt so hard he can hear the expensive fabric tear. 

It goes like this: I never had an older brother and you never had a best friend, so we will kick and bite each other until we know just what was in that childhood we missed. It goes like this: I want to bite your neck, I want to eat you alive; I want you to tear me apart, limb from limb, break me down to my molecules. I want to hurt you, and I want you to like it. 

Doug has Clyde pinned to the wall. This is just another fight to the death.

Doug tightens the hand in Clyde’s hair and he inhales sharply through his nose, whole body tightening. For a moment, he wants to run away. He wants to scream. The reality of what’s happening has finally slipped through his alcoholic haze and he starts to panic, until Doug thumbs the hinges of his jaw and sucks Clyde’s tongue into his mouth.

It’s a juvenile thing, and no one out of college even french kisses anymore, but the vodka and the broad hands spanning his face make Clyde feel more turned on than he has ever felt in his life. He pushes forward and opens his mouth, making the kiss hotter and impossibly wetter. They both moan.

Doug pulls away, panting, and says “Fuck, Clyde, you’re everything,” before moving his head down to paint sloppy, open-mouthed kisses all over Clyde’s neck.

No one has ever told Clyde that he’s everything, so subsequently Clyde has never known that all he has ever wanted was to be told he’s everything. He has never known, that is, up until this moment. Clyde Oberholt is _everything._ The thought makes him shudder.

Doug tugs Clyde’s collar open to bite, _hard,_ just where Clyde’s neck meets his shoulders. It’s rough, and it hurts, and it leaves the sensation Clyde has only ever felt when he has wet dreams about faceless men with broad shoulders that make him wake up in sticky sheets soaked with sweat and shame. Resultantly, Clyde doesn’t think he can be blamed for losing his fucking mind a little and saying “Don’t ever stop touching me,” while Doug’s sucking on his jaw, rapidly followed by “Do whatever you want to me,” which is admittedly a little needy but makes Doug go _nuts._

Clyde can’t breathe, can’t think; he’s never felt like this before, like there’s something in his ribs that’s trying to burst out of him and drag Doug inside. He’s still holding onto Doug’s tie, wrinkling it beyond repair in his sweaty fist, tugging Doug down every now and then just to remind himself how easily Doug will follow his hand. Always so obedient. Clyde groans.

He actually _whines_ a little when Doug catches his bottom lip between his and pulls, making him wonder when the fuck he got so _good_ at this. Clyde’s not self conscious, not by a long shot, but still, he’s thrown at how _surely_ Doug moves. It’s not right, he’s not supposed to be in charge, but Clyde’s hips still buck forward when Doug licks into his mouth.

Doug is so solid against him, crushing him into the wall, and Clyde feels like there’s going to be an imprint of his silhouette in the brick once they pull away. He kinda wants there to be, some sort of eternal reminder of what happened here. Like initials drawn in wet cement. _C. O. + D. G._

Doug slips his thigh between Clyde’s legs and it suddenly dawns on him how hard he is. How hard they both are, he realizes, as he feels Doug trying to discreetly dry hump his thigh. Clyde hisses at the sensation of the thick, hard line of Doug’s dick pressing against him. He splays his free hand over the expanse of Doug’s shoulder blades, pushing the back of his neck with his forearm until Doug moves in even closer. He _wants_ them to melt into each other, he doesn’t fucking care who’s the spoon.

But Clyde’s back aches from being pressed up against the wall, and he’s even hotter now with Doug all over him, more than is comfortable. He wants to go back to his climate controlled apartment with beds and couches and walls to block out even the slightest possibility of a witness to this crime. But he’s scared of giving either of them time to process what this is, and of bringing it into his home. He’s afraid that it would make this _real,_ that if he took them out of the negative space of this empty boulevard and into somewhere real things happen that they would both realize how big a mistake fucking your best friend is. Your _male_ best friend, who you work with, and see every day. 

Clyde weighs this fear against the feeling of Doug’s thigh pressing into him, forcing his legs wide open; against the feeling of Doug sucking a hickey into his neck, and decides to convince himself that he and Doug can keep any secret, and that they’re both too far gone for logic to impede… whatever this is. And whatever it is, it is inevitable: he knows that now, he knows that not just this night but maybe their whole lives have been leading up to them wrapping up into each other like copper wire.

“Doug,” he rasps out as Doug presses a kiss just under his jawline. “H—hey, wait,” he stutters, but Doug’s incessant licking and sucking up and down the column of his throat is throwing him off. He tugs Doug’s hair, once, twice, grip faltering as Doug just bites his neck sharply in response. “Doug, _fuck,_ stop,” Clyde hisses, suppressing a moan, and finally Doug moves his head. They lock eyes, and oh _God._

Doug looks fucking _wrecked._

His glasses are skewed, almost comically; hair is chaotic (from all that tugging), his pupils are blown so big Clyde can barely see the grey-blue iris, and his _mouth…_ Fuck, his mouth. 

He’s never seen Doug like this, not even in his most careless moments: he’s never seen Doug _undone._ And what sits with him is that it’s _Clyde’s_ fault, _he_ did that, he made Doug fall apart in his hands. The heady rush at the proof of his own existence and the tight heat in his abdomen makes him want to drag Doug in and kiss him again.

“Is,” Doug clears his throat, shocking Clyde out of his reverie. His voice is deeper than Clyde has ever heard it. “Is everything, uh, okay?” He still has that trace of fear in his eyes, like this is all just some sick joke of Clyde’s. The idea makes Clyde a little nauseous, that Doug thinks him capable of being that cruel. It’s not that it’s impossible, it’s just that he had hoped that if anyone could see good in him, it would be Doug.

“Yeah, yeah it’s—it’s okay,” he reassures him, fidgeting absentmindedly with a stray lock of hair behind Doug’s ear, “Just, uh.” Clyde pauses, swallowing audibly. “I’m not gonna fuck you against a CitiBank.” 

Doug blinks. “Huh?”

Clyde laughs weakly and tries again. “Your place or mine?” Realization flashes in Doug’s eyes, face flushing. He starts to stutter, but Clyde stops him. 

“Nevermind.” He pushes him off, finally unclenching his fist and releasing the ruined tie. “You could never make a fuckin’ decision. We’re going to mine.”

-

Neither of them say anything for the entire cab ride. Doug keeps looking across the seat like he’s about to reach out and touch Clyde, but always decides against it. Maybe he thinks it’ll shatter the moment, or that it’ll shatter Clyde. Clyde leans his forehead against the cool glass of the window. It might.

Clyde Oberholt doesn’t like men. It’s on principle, really: it just doesn’t fit with his lifestyle. And even if he did, he'd never act on it. He wouldn’t touch them or look at them too long with hungry, lonely eyes. It would be an invasion, really, to do it without them knowing. The thought of it makes his stomach roil with guilt.

Clyde Oberholt doesn’t think about men. For example, he doesn’t think about Marty. He doesn’t think about Marty or his graceful hands and bold confidence, how he commands a room like it’s nothing. Like he was _born_ to do it. How he commands _Clyde,_ raises him and cuts him down; how gracefully he maneuvers through a chaotic world with an illogical purpose. He doesn’t think about how he’s capable, and smart, a genius, really; he doesn’t think about what it means that Marty is functionally the polar opposite of his father. He doesn’t think about the lump that shows up in his throat when Marty praises him. He doesn’t think about how firmly Marty would grab his hair if Clyde was sucking his cock.

Clyde Oberholt doesn’t want men. And he _especially_ doesn’t want Doug; not his strong, firm arms, or sharp jawline. He doesn’t want to hear his laugh or look into his eyes. If Clyde did want those things, he might be the type to notice how Doug bites his lip when he’s concentrating or how he’s scared of spiders but not of the dark or how he sticks his tongue out when he’s doing long division. Clyde doesn’t want Doug to be there for him, even though he always will be there for him, even though Clyde knows that if he left Doug in the car without an explanation Doug wouldn’t even think to be mad. He doesn’t want Doug to be the way he is, he doesn’t want Doug to know him as well as he does. He doesn’t want to like it.

Clyde Oberholt doesn’t fuck men, doesn’t let them push him up against a wall and bite his collarbones. He doesn’t kiss them, deep and greedy, he doesn’t fumble with their glasses and hold their faces in his hands. He doesn’t jack off to the thought of being manhandled by big, strong hands after a long day of not looking at Doug’s ass.

If Clyde Oberholt doesn’t think those things, if he doesn’t _do_ those things, then this (whatever this is) isn’t happening. It’s just logical. Clyde Oberholt looks out of the window and watches the city drive by, swaddled up tight and cozy in his thick blanket of denial.

-

Leaning crooked and shaking against his living room wall, Clyde knows that technically, this is supposed to mean he’s winning. He’s winning, because it’s a just game they’re playing, a game and nothing else. But this game isn’t fun, it’s sick; _Clyde’s_ sick, and the only things he can hold on to are plausible deniability and Doug’s shoulders. He’s winning, and he’s making soft, high pitched noises into the palm of his hand. He’s winning, but he doesn’t feel like he’s winning; he feels like he’s losing, (quite badly, in fact, even though some part of him knows he already lost a long time ago.) He’s a born loser, that Clyde Oberholt, but he’ll never admit it.

So Clyde clings to this victory by forfeiture, clings to the fact that he’s the last man standing, even if he’s sick with vertigo. Clings to how _Doug_ is the one kneeled on the ground, how Doug is the one with his hands and mouth (oh God, his mouth) all over another man. Doug gave up, or maybe just gave in: all he can do now is pay Clyde attention. But Clyde’s kicking himself; if it’s Doug who’s baring his neck, why does Clyde feel like he’s the one being choked?

The last man standing feels his knees buckle and knows he’s lost this round, but is having trouble finding it in himself to care. He lost because Doug Guggenheim isn’t scared, he isn’t confused, he’s not leaning on anything. Clyde has spent 28 years of his life swallowing down kisses with women like coins, leaving a metallic taste in his mouth, he’s been so good and he wants this so bad that he just lets Doug simultaneously hold him up and tear him down all he wants. He doesn’t even care about how bad he’s losing. He doesn’t care because of the sloppy-wet heat of Doug’s soft mouth; he doesn’t care because Doug is looking up at Clyde like he _means_ something, anything; he’s looking at him like he’s more than an insignificant freckle of light in an endless night sky. Doug is looking at Clyde with so much purpose that the universe shrinks and Clyde becomes the center of it all, the sun. Star-gazing is pointless, the light is already dead, has been for hundreds of years, but Doug doesn’t know that so he’s staring at Clyde like he’s prettier than a flaming ball of gas should be. 

All this worship, all that wet, white-hot adoration makes Clyde stop caring about losing. Clyde is being looked at, he’s being _looked at;_ the apartment could be on fire but he wouldn’t care because someone finally kissed his neck and told him he’s special.

Doug swallows, and Clyde watches his Adam’s apple bob, feeling the hot pressure around his dick. He slams his head back against the wall so hard he’s sure it’ll leave a mark.

A voice in his brain screams at him. It tells him that he’s getting sucked off by a man, by _Doug,_ it warns him that he’s losing something he has worked very hard to prove he deserves. Clyde ignores it. Just for tonight, he ignores it.

As Doug’s hands hold the backs of Clyde’s thighs, it strikes him that Doug has done this before. The thought makes him absurdly upset, the idea that Doug would have done something like that without telling him, but he can’t really articulate coherent thoughts right now so he just tightens his hand in Doug’s hair. He’s not jealous, of course not, it’s just that they’re best friends. They’re supposed to tell each other everything, you know? And of course it makes sense, objectively, that Doug would keep it from him, he knows that he’s never fostered a very _accepting_ environment for that kind of disclosure, but still, it stings. 

It stings, he realizes absently, because Clyde has not had a single relationship in the past six years that Doug has not known about. The thought makes him come close to panic, but then Doug does _something_ with his tongue just in time to completely shut down Clyde’s brain. His whole body goes tight, and Clyde realizes he’s about to come.

“Doug,” is all Clyde can get out, his voice strangled. His whole body feels strangled, from the pressure on his lungs to the hot tension coiling up in the pit of his stomach. “Doug,” he tries again, and it sounds like it’s been forced up out of him. He finally pulls Doug off by his hair. “I’m,” Clyde says, apparently now confined to one-syllable sentences. Doug just stares up at him, eyes wide and glassy, fogged up glasses halfway down the bridge of his nose. And then, as Clyde makes a really pathetic sound, forgetting how space and men and gravity work; the divine intervene. Clyde comes all over his face.

Clyde’s whole chest contracts. Something just burst in his brain, maybe a blood vessel. He actually stops breathing for a solid moment, face burning.

“Doug,” for a third time, his voice and his soul and his whole body completely gutted out. Doug just blinks up at him. They stare at each other, both gasping, like they don’t have the mental capacity to properly conceptualize what just happened.

“Huh?” Doug says, a little bewildered. There’s come running down his glasses. His voice is distant, like it’s coming from miles away. Like every sound in the universe is impossibly far away, like the only things actually right here are Doug and Clyde.

Doug moves to wipe at his face, but before he can speak Clyde drops to his knees with a soft _whump._ Clyde nearly tackles him backwards to the ground, ignoring the sharp ache in his kneecaps and the acrid taste of himself in Doug’s mouth. He doesn’t care, he doesn’t care, he doesn’t _care,_ he just wants more.

Clyde arches over Doug, like he’s trying to cover him, like he’s trying to swallow him whole. He doesn’t care about losing, about winning, about being the girl or being the boy or the plastic spoon, he just doesn’t want to stop. He doesn’t want _it_ to stop, the attention; doesn’t want to stop feeling like he’s the only person in the world. He breaks the kiss to rather haphazardly fling Doug’s glasses off, ignoring his cry of protest before sliding their mouths together again He blindly tries to undo the remaining buttons on Doug’s shirt, his tie long forgotten somewhere else on Clyde’s rug. 

Clyde straddles Doug with fists full of wrinkled fabric and a stomach full of holes. He’s breathing so hard, his own lungs betraying how much he needs this, how much he needs _Doug._ Later, he’ll curse himself for this desperation, but right now Clyde is far too hungry to care about appearances. 

Clyde Oberholt was born starving, Clyde Oberholt was born alone, Clyde Oberholt has spent every waking moment blindly groping the dark. Clyde Oberholt was born with cold hands deprived of oxygen, so he will steal every breath of air out of Doug’s mouth until they both suffocate.

Clyde doesn’t even bother to try and get Doug’s shirt off once he’s finished with the buttons, just runs his hands over his warm chest. He cups Doug’s pectoral and Doug groans, arching up into him. Bizarrely, he realizes that technically, this is second base. He has to press his face into Doug’s neck to muffle his moan.

He’s half-hard again and he’s never been this wired in his life, not on coke or pills or even anger. He reaches down and pops the button on Doug’s pants. For once, Clyde’s desire is burning through his fear. Doug’s sucking on his tongue in these hot little pulses that Clyde _really_ likes, running his hand slowly down his back until he’s cupping Clyde’s ass. He likes them so much that he grinds his hips down on Doug's. He feels Doug freeze under him, then does it again, rolling his hips slow and deliberate.

_"No,"_ Doug growls, grabbing Clyde's hips and stilling them.

"Oh, _Douglas,"_ Clyde says, only half sarcastic, because _wow, hot._ "You brute, be gentle with m—"

"Clyde," Doug cuts him off. He guides Clyde's hand lower, back to his now-open fly. "Shut up?" Clyde swallows. He nods slowly, and slides his hand into Doug's pants, drinking in the soft, low groan it evokes. 

Clyde gets Doug off quick and sloppy, hunched over him, touching everywhere he can reach. He has never in his life felt closer to God. 

Even after, once he’s wiped his hand off on Doug’s open shirt, Clyde doesn’t stop moving. His fingers skitter, panicked, over the planes of Doug’s chest, never settling, trying to drink it all in desperately until Doug leans up and kisses Clyde firmly on the mouth.

Doug props himself up on his elbows and holds Clyde inside and out, settling him down. Clyde’s panting, opening his legs and mouth further, running his hands over Doug’s shoulders and chest, but Doug only goes slower. It scares Clyde more than frustrates him. He doesn’t want Doug to stop being hungry for him, not ever.

Doug kisses him slowly, lazily, but Clyde’s heart won’t stop pounding. But this desperation isn’t that urgent need to get off, it’s fear; once it ends, he has to look at himself. Once Doug leaves, it’ll just be Clyde, alone in his apartment, mopping up the blood on the floor. He keeps running his hands over Doug’s chest and shoulders. He can’t stop clutching. 

But eventually Clyde sighs through his nose, slinging an arm over Doug’s shoulders. He lets Doug stroke his back gently and feels the tension slowly leak out of him like a deflating balloon, feels himself calming down with every gentle press of Doug’s lips. Doug places a hand on Clyde’s shoulder, gently pushing him off. Clyde very impressively resists the urge to whine.

“I gotta,” Doug sits up fully, blindly patting the ground, “I gotta find my glasses.” This new position means Clyde is seated fully on Doug’s lap, knees bent on either side. Doug still has a hand on the small of his back, steadying him. “I gotta find them before they get stepped on,” he mumbles dazedly, more to himself than to Clyde.

Clyde wraps his arms around Doug’s neck and kisses him again. He doesn’t want Doug to look for his glasses, he wants Doug to calm him down again. Clyde has always been addicted to anything that makes him forget the fact that he’s alive.

“Clyde— _mmh,”_ Doug starts, but Clyde won’t stop kissing him, can’t: he feels like that bus with the ticking bomb, like if they fall under a certain speed limit they’ll explode.

They’ll never get to do this again; _Clyde_ will never get to do this again. He feels like he’s trying to bargain with Death, begging for just a little more time. He supposes he is: this is the one and only night he has ever felt alive, and he _really_ doesn’t want it to end, but the sun’s already rising behind the curtains. He holds Doug’s face between his hands gently, a last meal.

“Clyde, I just— _mm_ —I just gotta find my glasses,” Doug tries reasoning between kisses, “‘cause— _mh_ —Clyde, _mm,_ seriously, I need them to see.” He wraps a hand firmly around the back of Clyde’s neck, pulling him back. Like a _dog._ It turns Clyde on more than he likes to admit, but he doesn’t try to kiss Doug again. He sits obediently on Doug’s lap, like a good boy.

Clyde watches Doug fumble aimlessly for a moment before leaning over and picking up the glasses himself. They’re hopelessly smudged, and Clyde momentarily considers licking them clean, but chickens out. He wordlessly hands them over.

“Thanks,” Doug replies and carefully places them in his shirt pocket. “It’s just that they were gonna get stepped on, is all,” he explains, then leans forward, cupping Clyde’s face and kissing him so tenderly that Clyde feels like he might pass out. 

Their mouths slide together, soft and plush, and all this gentleness just makes Clyde feel more fragile. Clyde’s arms hang dumbly by his sides until he brings his hands up to Doug’s arms, hovering more than holding. Doug is reassuring him, he realizes, he’s telling him he still wants to kiss him even after he’s found his glasses. He wants him even when he can see him. And it’s so kind, so unbearably intimate, that Clyde has to pull away. He doesn’t want to, but it doesn’t really matter what he wants. Reality and sobriety is seeping into his brain with the morning light. 

“We should,” Clyde starts, voice rough like he’s been crying, “sleep.”

“Okay,” Doug says much too softly. He’s smiling at Clyde in a way he shouldn’t, not if he wants to live for very much longer.

Clyde stands up abruptly. He clears his throat. “Okay, then.” He does not look at Doug as he turns away to walk to his room, but he’s weak, and only makes it to the door before he says “Are you coming or not?” He doesn’t turn around.

Clyde doesn’t use his CPAP machine when he has hookups, it freaks girls out and he can generally rely on them to check on him if he stops breathing. Well, he’s not using it tonight either, but that’s just because he’s still too drunk and too tired. And he only lets Doug spoon him because if he puts his hand on Clyde’s chest, it’ll be easier for him to tell if it stops moving. He doesn’t have a very good excuse for why he lets Doug tangle their legs together under the blanket except for he is really very cold, and Doug is like a giant hot water bottle. And really, he lets Doug kiss the nape of his neck just because.

That night, Clyde falls into a dreamless sleep to the rise and fall of Doug’s chest. For once, he has not gone to bed hungry.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> PLEASE leave comments! which lines did you like? also kudos god bless

**Author's Note:**

> im @livepoultryfreshkilled on tumblr pls say hi - COMMENTS AND KUDOS R THE ONLY THING SUSTAINING ME


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